Lilies Are White - And White Is Not That Much
by emerald-mind
Summary: How would it be, if Francis was deathly insecure, and Arthur the one with extravagant self-confidence? Human AU where Francis and Arthur go to the same literature class in a London University and notice each other from afar for quite some time until a certain class and a night to follow it. (Rated T for now.)
1. Prologue: Melancholy

A/N: Based on a prompt from tumblr user catholicorprotestant:  
"An AU where Francis is the one who is deathly insecure and Arthur is usual Francis level confident."

I found this very intriguing and gave it a go, in a human university AU.  
I think that their personalities stay IC, just with this rather dramatical twist.  
Francis is a drama queen either way, Arthur is... British, either way.  
(Can't say how many chapters, my guess would be 3-5.)  
_

Prologue:

_Melancholy : The art of seeing the world as romantic and yet staying pessimistic and keeping a lead role in quiet tragedy, which you call your life._

Things that went through Francis's mind: Flashy smiles, red roses, whispered French words and fancy clothes, hand-holding and a lot more to kissing and beyond.  
He wanted to look in the eyes of beautiful people, talk of love and live in Paris, prance by the streets, give kisses on the cheeks of people he barely knew, live life like it was drinking a glass of red wine.  
He would become a waiter and a photographer and oh, he would seek beauty and capture it exactly as it presented itself in the moment.

But the thing was that Francis lived in London, and couldn't get himself to leave for various reasons.  
Besides, London was a good city for you if you wanted to be invisible and quiet. The rain kept you inside and the fog obscured your features and people were too busy to judge and kept their distance and it was okay to be quiet when you had a French accent.  
And no matter how much Francis was a romantic and thought about all those beautiful things, there was a… block. He felt so apart of everything he loved. Apart from everything beautiful and every human.  
He was too shy to lift a camera and take a picture of a moment, sure that he wouldn't be able to catch it, that he would shake or wait too long. So he carried beautiful moments with him in his mind until he returned home and could close a few doors and curtains and windows and paint silently and take as much time as he wanted, never having to show his work to anyone.  
He really didn't think it was any good but he didn't want to burn memories, so he kept his paintings in a storage room he only entered when adding a painting.  
When it came to waiting, he had tried. Because he really liked coffee shops and waiter costumes and the way people got together and stopped everything just to have a cup of coffee… or tea, since we were in England. He had tried and then he quit because several customers had either smiled at him weirdly or giggled together when he turned around and he simply couldn't take it. So he now worked in the kitchen, and only in the kitchen, whereas he would have preferred to do both. But he couldn't stand the scrutiny of people watching him and judging him. He simply couldn't.

See, Francis thought that if he started talking, he'd talk too much, or worse, laugh, because oh lord did he hate his laugh. He didn't dare think about looking other people in the eyes because he certainly didn't know how and he might end up smiling and yes, he hated his smile as much as, if not more than his laugh.

He was persuaded that if he had his long, blond hair without a ponytail, he'd look ridiculous, if he wore colour, he'd look fat, and… Oh, how he hated being caught up in all of this, since he knew they were shallow things. But it wasn't like he could help it. He loved beautiful things and beautiful people. Oh, how troublesome it was, not being part of them.

He studied in random classes in a university – mostly about history, literature and arts – then worked in the evening, three days a week, and the rest of his time he seemed to spend painting the beautiful things he saw. And dreaming about love. Which he most probably would never find.

_

Told you that Francis was a drama queen... Also, I find it quite sad to write insecure Francis, since he literally has no reason for being insecure ;_;.


	2. Chapter 1: Invisibility

A/N: Here it is, the proper beginning, the first chapter.  
Fair warning: with me, things "escalate" rather quickly. But the thing is, they may "de-escalate" even faster. Really, you just have to kind of hang in there...  
(I'm finding this Francis kind of oddly relatable, but tell me if he's too ooc besides the insecurity.)

Anyways, so thankful for the follows and favorites,  
_Vous êtes trop gentils_ *bise*. :3

_

Chapter 1:

_Invisibility: Being there, being there so much, feeling and hearing and seeing. But then not being there at all, unheard and unseen. Something safe. (And so very fragile.)_

This was literature class on a normal weekday. Francis was one who loved reading and writing dearly. It was calm. You could take your time with each word and no one could hear the fault in your pronunciation. You were feelings and words without a face.

Well, that was how Francis used literature. There was a very different kind of writer in the class too, though: A young man, perhaps a bit younger than Francis himself, with messy blond hair and eyebrows to remember. He looked spectacular with his thin and long limbs as he stood up, brows furrowed, and cleared his throat before reading yet another one of his poems out loud.

The poems he wrote… They were something else. Romantic, perhaps, rebellious, definitely. The way his perfectly controlled British accent clashed with the beautiful chaos of his words was enticing.

He was the one who dared to read aloud whereas most of the others didn't. He knew he was talented, and it was only right that he did. Yes, some of the other students seemed to regard him as obnoxious, but Francis was thankful that he read his texts out loud, since those were the only times he'd hear them, hear him.

Sometimes Francis wondered what it would be like to have the confidence of that man. Arthur Kirkland, that was his name, and it was not possible that anyone in that class wouldn't know, and even more unlikely that every single one of them didn't want to get to know him better. It was fascinating, especially to someone like Francis, how he could perfectly voice his opinions and not waver, not even under social scrutiny or the relentless gaze of the course teacher.  
Francis thought that having an argument with someone like Arthur would be perfect… if he'd only ever find the words for his loud opinions. Or the certainty needed for voicing them. Or the belief in their rightfulness.

But what really had caught Francis's attention were the Brit's eyes. As a lover of all things beautiful, it was only natural since Francis was sure he'd never seen eyes as brilliantly green. Like pure, clear emeralds they were. The way their colour seemed to darken and lighten as he spoke, depending on… the shade of his words. He wondered how it would be, having those eyes look at him.  
Francis himself had blue eyes and he could not stand them. They were dull, in his opinion, and cold. Uninteresting and a tad too clichéd to be beautiful. Arthur's eyes were wild. And very, very beautiful.

When he thought things like those, Francis blushed a little by himself and thought that he was too much of a romantic for the real world. He felt too much. (And again, that was what was comforting in words and other art. He was allowed to.)

Unlike history lessons, these lessons weren't slow, and unlike art class, literature was very calm. It was black and white and yet so very much.  
There were lessons during which Francis just wrote, didn't stop at all, didn't hear if there were comments made, questions asked or further instructions given. He just wrote and it was very pleasant, maybe because he loved talking, he just had difficulty being able to do so with actual people around. Ink and paper were nice.  
Some days he felt very quiet, were it due to the subject of the class or fatigue of an idle morning or slow afternoon. On those days he heard everything… or would have, had he not been watching how another's pen moved without a halt for most of the lesson.  
It could be said that Francis had to study a lot when he returned home since classes were just weird little spaces in his time.

Anyway, there was this one unusual literature lesson. Well, it wasn't that special but it was the last one before… indeed special things happened to happen, so in Francis's book, there must have been something very unusual about it.

And there was, because his imaginary cloak of invisibility seemed to have stopped working.  
It was a class about the literature of the bohemian revolution, which mostly happened in Paris. Beauty, freedom, truth and love, Francis remembered that motto and chanted it in his head. Their assignment was the usual type: to freely write according to the style they had studied. He rather enjoyed literature from that time and if he was to put a tag on his own writing… Well, it was nowhere near as good, but…

His musings were interrupted by that feeling you get when someone is looking at you. Francis had been leaning his chin against his palm, looking past the classroom walls and – god forbid – smiling at nothing real, just at his own thoughts. Then he came to realize that there was a pair of eyes on him.

There was the plot twist everyone had been waiting for: they were green eyes and seriously Francis didn't understand why, and so he stiffened, his smile faded and he quickly looked away and returned to writing. But then, when the teacher was asking for volunteers to read their text aloud, he got that same feeling and when he looked, he saw that he was right.

Arthur Kirkland was looking at him, one eyebrow raised – mind you, that has a very powerful effect when you have eyebrows like his – and with the expression we all learned in kindergarten of "go on, or I'll tell the teacher". All Francis managed was a horrified shake of the head and received a pronounced sigh, eye-roll and a mild sneer, which seemed to say "fine" in the most sarcastic way possible.

The class ended, Francis returned home very quietly, but his invisibility seemed far less safe than before. In a way, it was uncomfortable. In a way, it was exciting.

Perhaps that was exactly why he didn't find himself painting late in the evening, but instead in a bar. He did not know the combination of faultily built thought-lines he'd passed by to end up exactly there, in a dark and awkward pub, one that smelled rancid and had low music playing – not any of that actual pop music with an annoying beat, but one which had a lingering bass sound which was a bit too loud.

He sat there quietly and didn't really know what for, but he did nevertheless, drinking a glass of semi-good red wine and just… no, that's it.

It was a peculiar set of coincidences, which had led to a certain Arthur Kirkland being present in that very same pub. He was already slightly intoxicated – yet only slightly since he for one, could hold his liquor – when he spotted a certain Francis Bonnefoy.  
"There's something about this guy", that's what he thought. It was a thought he'd had many times, but vaguely, always only vaguely, yet now it seemed to be so very clear. "This guy", he thought, "would be great for an argument."  
What Arthur saw was a pretty boy – no joke though, pretty – who was French. He hadn't heard his accent, but he knew his name, vaguely, and well, it left no questions.  
A pretty frog who caught his attention. There definitely was something about this guy. With that Arthur decided to leave his company – they were boring anyway – and walk over, the low pressure of the new age-y grunge music humming in his chest.

All clad in black and clinging, he bought a beer for the one in black and not so clinging. Francis looked at him eyes wide and oh, how he hated beer, but still, he thought, why not. And he drank it. Perhaps another. And then some to follow. Disgusting, sweet, bland ale. The best he'd had.

"Why", Arthur finally asked, "why the fuck didn't you read?"  
"Read what?" Francis answered surprisingly strongly. "Your poem. Today. In class", Arthur said with an irritated huff. "Oh", Francis lifted his brow, "you know I write poetry, do you?"  
Arthur huffed again: "Oh please! It's written all over you! Now stop avoiding the question." "What's written all over me, _rosbif_?" he said, slightly blushing and feeling an internal punch at the insult he gave, but surprisingly light, probably due to the alcohol.  
"Exactly that, _frog_", Arthur smirked, "The reasons why you should've read: French, out-dated, cliché."  
"Says the British punk in the 21st century?" "Oi!"  
And from then on the words just ran. They ran like they hadn't for years, not for Francis. It was all an amusing war between Paris and London – not lilies and roses, but red roses versus yellow ones for once – and beautifully snide remarks without sugar coating, and that heinous beer in gulps too large.  
And the words were building something, something Francis would have normally tipped over and turned from, but now he was too into it, too much a part of it, and he really didn't want to be tipped over, did he now.  
That tension, that beautiful, lovable, absolutely heavenly tension, it made him smile and laugh and he hadn't even remembered he laughed through his nose, and _Dieu_, he didn't even care.

Somehow – Francis didn't know how – the low-oxygen beat of the bar changed into brisk October air, and Francis's English into something slightly more French, and some of the words into touches, and asphalt into stairs and the darkness of the night to the darkness of an apartment with only one door, lots of space and a bed, which Francis vaguely remembers.

Everything is quite alarmingly vague and Francis thinks he must look horrible and he shouldn't quite be there, not with all that's Arthur Kirkland, but suddenly there are lips on his and oh – _oh_ – _ciel_, who cares about anything as long as the lights are out?  
Oh the Brit is so very pale and the Frenchman has golden hair _everywhere_, and Arthur pulls out the elastic holding his hair back, and Francis can't believe he just got a _love_ bite, and Arthur can't stop thinking about how there's so much something to this guy, it's almost too much.

However they can't hear each other's thoughts and all is left unsaid as Arthur is leading and Francis finds himself following and the lights stay out, the sheets are white. Everything Francis has thought and blushed about just simply happens, as a beautiful set of pictures, ones that couldn't be framed.

Arthur drifts asleep with an arm around a narrow waist and Francis feels a headache behind his eyes before he can even follow him in dreams.  
"Had I only smiled less and owned eyes more blue", is an annoying thought to sleep with and so it is forgotten as he lay against the pale-chested man.  
(Morning brings that what Morning brings.)

Translations:  
_rosbif_ = affectionate insult with which the French refer to the Brits, literally "roast beef" (burn!)  
_Dieu_ = God  
_ciel_ = "Heavens"

*Comments are welcomed warm-heartedly*

_If I do not update briefly, I have deceased under a pile of schoolbooks._


	3. Chapter 2: Morning After

A/N: Finally, finally we are here! This has been ready but not proofread for over a week, because of my exams.  
This morning was dedicated for the English oral exam - during which I called myself a pessimistic prat and now that is recorded on a tape which will stay in the school archives for the next 50 years - and now I'm done for the next 7 weeks.  
Yes, enough excuses. A huge and sincere thank you for the favorites, follows and especially reviews.  
(Ah, you've made me smile, alright!)

Remember when I said that things escalate and de-escalate with me? Good, have some of that now, you're very welcome.

Chapter 2:  
_Morning after: Pray to the Gods it never arrives… Still, once the Sun will rise, not to a mere morning but the one after, for every one of us._

Sunlight tickles Francis awake. Well, it's tickling until he actually opens his eyes and then it's pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and grumbles, turning away from the window, nose colliding with… A ribcage.  
"_Quoi_?" Francis manages in his mind as he realizes there's an arm draped around him. White skin with barely any fair hairs.  
He props himself up and then carefully looks at the face resting on the pillow. Right then and there he'd take one of his pictures. Right then and there, but he has no camera and no courage and he remembers everything all of a sudden, everything in vague images. And that's when he needs to get out.  
Francis scrambles up and dresses too fast and flees out of the door, and _merde_, he forgot his socks.  
First thoughts first: "How could I? _Oh idiot_, _pourquoi_? " that is how he starts to scold himself in French and English mixed and mashed. He cant help it: his hands fly to cover his face once in a while, and he shakes his head, as if it would help him stop thinking or throw his thoughts so badly off-track that he'd never find them.  
But his hair is open and he can't forget. It all happened and it's very real. Oh good grief, did they use protection? He tries to shake those questions away, they're not relevant…  
Who does that with someone they barely know? No, rather why did he? He imagines himself in that state of… not thinking, openly feeling with expressions and sounds and touches, and he grimaces, face flushing.  
_"C'est du joli_…"  
And then finally: Why does it feel so good? That's what he asks himself as he closes the door to his apartment. Since now that he's calm…er, he feels many things:  
A pounding headache and nausea? God yes, but beyond that. He feels… fuzzy, frilly and barely real. A rather nice feeling, it is. He feels like the fog, which floats above the asphalt streets in the mornings. He feels like the breathing pattern of a sleeping person. He feels excellent in many ways.  
He remembers the picture he wanted to take, and he will not start to paint it – not now – but there he kind of knows why. Beauty makes him happy, as simple as that. And then and there he is kind of sorry that he left like that even though it's not like he had a choice, did he now? He doesn't want to think he had and he knows he didn't – because really, hiding under someone else's bed cover for a whole Saturday would have been so much more embarrassing than this already is.  
He takes a shower and ties his hair back and literally doesn't go out for the rest of the weekend. He spends his Saturday in the hangover of the year, behind closed curtains, with black coffee, going from smiling like an idiot to burying his face in his pillow because _oh-mon-dieu-non_. Sunday, that he spends doing only the latter. And maybe he took out a clean sheet of thick paper and a few fresh pencils, and maybe he made up some light lines and thought about watercolours.

Francis wonders how Arthur spent his weekend.  
Well, it went a little something like this: he woke up and hissed at the light, jumped up and almost fell as he reached to pull the curtains shut.  
It was well past noon but he simply collapsed back on his bed since this once tea wouldn't do any good and he would never touch coffee, so what was the point of getting up?  
As he looked at the crumpled sheets next to him, his thoughts had evolved in to a question: "What is it with that guy?" and he was maybe surprisingly disappointed to wake up alone, surprisingly since he thought that was the norm.  
Eventually he had to get up and get a glass of water. Followed by nine more. Then he went back to bed and did not understand how his headache could be so bad. He flung his arm to cover his eyes, grunting in displeasure, and then sensing the lingering scent of the Frenchman's skin.  
Arthur thought about the night before. About how it rather surprised him. He had anticipated flirt, yes, and a rather interesting set of arguments, but in a way he was surprised they ended up in bed – but he couldn't say that he was sorry about it, it was rather spectacular in his foggy memories.  
It wasn't that he'd doubted his charm – since let's face it, he had plenty – more that he anticipated more "frog-y-ness" from Francis. The normal pretty boy antics with a bonus twist of arrogance. It just wasn't there, though.  
Overall there was this rather nice thing about that frog – he did not act like he looked. Well, to be fair, he did, but still not entirely.  
Then he thought about golden hair everywhere, long, warm limbs and eyes so blue they pierced the darkness in the room and sod it, he didn't know he had that much of a romantic poet left in him.  
Francis really should've read out loud in the class. And Arthur really wouldn't leave it at this.  
At some point he drifted to restless sleep and when he woke up it was already dark, so he went out. He didn't comb his hair, he simply got dressed and noticed a pair of foreign socks on the floor, and then he was out.  
Sunday was a dull repeat of Saturday.

Monday comes along and it's cold and dark and very rude for waking Francis up from perfectly pleasant dreams.  
"_Punaise_…" he thinks when he realizes that it is neither history nor arts he studies on Mondays, but literature.  
It is very dark and heavy clouds hang low as he walks to the metro and then to the university. He is kind of more than kind of nervous, but he is among the first to enter the class, where Arthur is one of the last and he simply decides not to look even though he feels green eyes on him. He does not look.  
Maybe he is a bit too stiff and chews on his lower lip a bit too harshly, but he really is irritated with himself.

He is irritated because he knows exactly what he would like to do: he would like to look and smile and even wink. It is all as a clear set of pictures in his mind. He'd like to walk over after class and smile more and talk English with French words casually thrown into sentences.  
Then again he'd also like to carry a red rose with him at all times and actually be the cliché Arthur thinks him to be. That would be really quite perfect.  
He can do none of that, though. All he can do is listen to the teacher talking about literature during the World Wars and then walk out while looking down, walk so very swiftly and disappear into the light rain outside. All he can do is hold imaginary lilies and let an opportunity and endless moments with it pass since he absolutely doesn't know how to capture them on time.  
That's probably exactly why he is a painter, not a photographer.

Tuesday is dedicated for art and history and the afternoon for work in the café. Francis smiles as he works in his white, slightly dirtied apron. He really enjoys the clinking and humming and other noises in this kitchen. He doesn't know why, he just does. Even the way the door opens and closes, waving back and forth undecidedly for a moment or so.  
But then, then old Mrs Teapot has to come in with a black and white waiter suit. And no, her name isn't Mrs Teapot, it's just what Francis calls the old English lady, his boss.  
"Francis!" she chimes and Francis swears to God that this can't be good. "There's someone asking for you", she continues, holding out the waiter's costume. Francis listens to how she pronounces her English in a very "posh" manner and then furrows his eyebrows. "For me? But…"  
"Ah, oh no, dear, no buts. You'll just quickly change into this and then you'll go to table twelve, chop chop now!" the grey woman said excitedly, with an actual spark in her eyes. Francis knew she was a nice lady and he was right.  
Ms Mahogany – yes, that's her real name, she surprisingly isn't married to a teapot – was a nice lady who really liked Francis. She often thought that the boy was too coy for his own good – she honestly hadn't expected _that_ of all things when she hired him – and now she was a nice lady (who liked Francis) with an agenda.  
"Come on now", she'd smiled even more, had it been physically possible, "even English tea can't stay warm forever – and we aren't discussing reheating, no sir, not during my watch, not in my teashop."  
Frankly, Francis was confused and he hesitated, trying to find something to say to refuse with, but then Ms Mahogany scoffed and gave him a little pleading look while saying: "If not for yourself, then for me, boy! You have no idea how quickly customers multiply when you're out there!"  
And with that, there were no further questions – even if Francis had many – only a push towards the changing room. Francis changed quickly and smiled to himself from the mirror.  
"_Bon_, it isn't as if I wouldn't enjoy waiter costumes and everyday mysteries."

Translations:  
Quoi? - What?  
Merde - Shit  
Oh idiot, pourquoi? - Oh idiot, why?  
C'est du joli - a kind of sarcastic way of expressing that something is not good, even if it is literally "That's beauty". French people, I apologize for all of them :-D  
oh-mon-dieu-non - oh-my-god-no  
Punaise - a mild French exclamation, literally "Stinkbug", but the British equivalent would probably be "Bugger".  
Bon - Well

Oh, feel free to review :))  
'Til next time!


	4. Chapter 3: Fate

A/N: Chers lecteurs, you have no idea how sorry I am. I don't know what happened, I just drifted to other projects and weeks just rolled on by. But here you have it, chapter 3. It's really FrUK'd up fluff.  
The name, "Fate", is because perhaps our little French protagonist starts to fathom... well, let's just say it cryptically: something.  
I would like to thank you for your follows, favourites and above all comments. It is nice to know if my little fanfic makes other FrUKers (and people in general) smile :3

_

Chapter 3:

_Fate: And imaginary veil of purple and stars, which does not exist in actual, mundane life. An early version of coincidence – which also does not exist._

Francis was a little less certain about his love of adventures concerning other actual human beings as he walked out with a simple cup of tea on a white saucer.  
He knew the café by heart of course, after all this time, and so he walked straight to the back of the café with determination.

And there he was. At table 12 sat no one else but Arthur Kirkland. Francis could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks and he hated it.

It didn't help that Arthur finally looked up and said: "Blimey, I do have good luck, you were at work after all." Francis looked confused and asked: "How did you know I worked here?" He was met with one of the huffs he was getting used to weirdly quickly: "Oh come on, it's not exactly a secret. All the birds at the university were so heartbroken when the charming French waiter gave up waiting. Can't blame them though… Can you take that outfit home with you?" he asked flashing a quirked smile.  
Francis had to blink a few times before working himself up to the next question: "Why are you here again?" Arthur's smile grew even wider: "Why, I'm being the good fellow, getting you back into that costume and redeeming those hearts. And also asking you out."  
_Oui, absolument_: nothing made sense, every sentence less than the one before. Francis stuttered for a while, finally got himself to set the cup of tea down on the table, fidget with his bangs and finally say: "Why?"  
Arthur, looking rather unimpressed, simply answered: "Oh, I don't know… The weather's fine, you look fanciful and you should get to let your hair down. Literally", then he smiled again and all Francis managed to think was: "Please, please, please_, s'il vous plait_, stop blushing, now", and possibly that a grey sky and foggy air didn't count as "fine weather" in his book.  
Arthur quirked an eyebrow: "Why are you blushing so much? I mean, you don't hit me as the blushing type." Francis looked away and answered: "Oh, I don't know. My circulatory system seems to have a mind of its own" with a sarcastic tone. Arthur shrugged and Francis really, really wanted to leave because he really, really wanted to say yes to the date but he was absolutely positive that he was unable to pronounce that word right now and that it really would be a mistake. His thoughts were running and trying to connect logical behaviour patterns and maybe they would have, but when he lifted his eyes to meet the emerald ones, he immediately blanched.  
No, too green, too beautiful, too much like a picture – Francis was not good with pictures, especially sudden ones – and he had stiffed completely and for some unknown reason, all he could do was shake his head and turn away.  
Oh, let the gods of all moments have their head shoved in a locker. That was what Francis thought as he walked behind the counter untying his apron. There was Mrs Teapot who had apparently been following the whole scene as she was now giving him a disapproving frown.  
"That right there, young man, is a fine catch here", she said holding her index finger up. Francis merely looked at her half embarrassed and half disappointed and said: "I know. That, I know."  
Ms Mahogany looked at Francis's back until he disappeared to the kitchen. She shook her head lightly and sighed. As she turned around she saw Arthur approaching the counter and when he got there to pay, she said:  
"Do let yourself be discouraged quite yet, dear. Francis is quite the catch, you know?" Arthur quirked his eyebrows and smiled a little: "That, I know", reaching into his pocket and giving the elderly woman a folded paper note. "Give him this, will you, please?"  
Of course she did. On the note there stood a brief and cryptic message – cryptic had you not been there – with uneven, hasty letters.  
"If this is about the socks, don't worry, they're safe. In fact I'm wearing them (they're nice)", accompanied by a phone number. Which presumably was Arthur's. Or then it was a prank. Either way, the note kept on bothering Francis. He physically could not rip it apart or throw it away, but if he kept it in his pocket, he could think of nothing else, if he left it at home, it would wait with patience. And so it stayed.  
A few more sketched lines, that's all.

After one especially awkward literature class, Francis tried to dash out as usual, but this time, his escape didn't succeed. He dropped his notebook – oh the pain of the cliché – and someone else picked it up for him.  
Who else but Arthur Kirkland? After a few awkward moments of shuffling with notes and stuttering something incomprehensible, Arthur said:  
"You know, when I gave you that number, I honestly thought you'd call", smirking nonetheless. Francis didn't know how to answer, so he blushed: "Well…"  
"Just answer me this: is it because you don't want to?" the Brit asked, making Francis fluster even further. "Why, why does he do this to me?" he wondered silently in his mind.  
There was a prolonged silence and risen eyebrows, but finally Francis answered: "Non… Not exactly… I mean I would…" and it was enough.  
"Good, let's get going then!" Arthur chimed and started walking towards the doors in nonchalance. "Where?" Francis asked confused.  
"Well, I'm not exactly walking you home", was the answer he got.

…

Not exactly walking Francis home was exactly what the Brit did. He took every possible detour, walked through every possible park, and really, Francis hadn't realized how little of London he had actually seen.  
At times he'd stop and wonder why on earth he was following that mad man's paths, but then that exact man would say something which would either make him blush or really annoyed, and he'd just brush his doubts away and come up with a comeback.  
Eventually they passed something unbearably charming: A teacart. It was a small cart, painted white and either made look old or just actually old wood, with kitsch style roses painted on its sides and the words "Warm English Tea" scripted among them in a highly detailed Elizabethan manner.  
Francis couldn't pretend as if he hated the Brits, not even to honour his French heritage: they were much too enchanting with their civilized temper and anger hidden in clinks of silver against porcelain cups.  
Unfortunately the tea Arthur bought for them from the cart was served in brown paper cups with plastic spoons. Francis didn't mind – he preferred coffee in any case – but Arthur scowled lightly and made the Frenchman laugh a bit.

For a while they simply walked side by side, sipping at their teas, but then Francis spotted a flock of blackbirds against a violet-tinted sky and let out a small sigh.  
"Oh how I wish I had a camera, look how beautiful they are", he said pointing to the birds, taking the Brit off-guard, since up until now it had been ridiculously hard to get the Frenchman talking, let alone having him start a conversation. Of course Arthur responded as quickly as possible: "A-ah, yes, they really are. But why don't you just get a camera? They certainly don't have to be all that expensive."  
Francis frowned slightly at that and said: "Well… I wouldn't be any good at that, certainly not… I mean I could never be a photographer."  
"You do not need to be a photographer to take photos. Besides, you should do what you like", Arthur said, mildly shrugging.  
"Ah, well, I'm a painter in any case, not a good one, really, but I do enjoy it. It's just that much harder capturing a beautiful moment with canvas and paint. And slower too, so they pile up."  
Arthur hadn't known the other man painted, but come to think about it, he wasn't even surprised: "You can't possibly want to paint every single beautiful thing you see, that's insane."  
"Why? I like beautiful things and in the end I'd have at least a room filled with exactly those, never mind if they were made by me. That would be nice", Francis answered jokingly, although Arthur got a funny feeling, which told him that the other had thought about this a bit more than just a joke.  
"Woah, you are insane. It's easier if you just live a little and get a camera. Or just start walking around with a mirror in your pocket", he added with a flirtatious smirk. Francis blushed furiously at that and rolled his eyes.  
They'd finally arrived in front of Francis's apartment – with some instructions from himself obviously – and stopped there. The Frenchman was still blushing but now it was rather because he felt rather embarrassed about talking about himself like that. And yes, because Arthur had once again insinuated something about him looking good, so. "Well", Arthur started, "this was nice."  
"It was", Francis mumbled back, "Um, I, uh… Okay, well", and that was his queue to leave, so he simply turned around and hurried to the door, but not before practically shoving something into Arthur's hand.  
"Hey, Francis", the Brit shouted after him, so he turned around and saw him smiling, "I'll see you in class. Good night". Francis tried to smile back and say something like: "Same to you", but what came out was rather: "_Bonne nuit_", after which turned to his apartment.

It was funny; he hadn't been able to talk French to anyone not French in… Well, ever, in fact. He'd always wanted to, to be honest, because he thought that it was a language filled with meaning even if you didn't speak it. (With Arthur it certainly did.)  
_Ah bien, bon_, maybe this meant that one day he'd be able to finish that sentence he'd started outside.

While walking home, Arthur opened the crumbled up ball of paper and read it; there was the name Francis written in teeny tiny letters, even and perfectly scripted, and under them a phone number.

He smiled. There was so much about that guy.

Oui, absolument: Yes, absolutely  
s'il vous plait: please  
Ah, bien, bon: Ah well  
Bonne nuit: Good night

Merci, thank you for reading, still a few chapters to go :)


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